


Goodbye, Ubba Ragnarsson.

by XX_CALIBRE



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28730736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XX_CALIBRE/pseuds/XX_CALIBRE
Summary: Eivor says to goodbye to the man he wants.
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Ubba (fl. 860s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Goodbye, Ubba Ragnarsson.

**Author's Note:**

> I bid **[Keikei_firefly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keikei_firefly)** and **[Jenn_Harper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenn_Harper/pseuds/Jenn_Harper)** a big thank you.

Eivor sits by his grave, the weight on his shoulders multiplied by ten-fold. Eivor’s heart is heavy, his eyes coated with tears that have yet to fall. The breath in his lungs has weight, and he finds it difficult to breathe the more he sits there.

But he must remain. He has to remain by Ubba’s grave.

The cold, lifeless ring hugs his finger. He gives it warmth with his lips; a soft, ginger kiss. His brows furrow. His forehead rests against his twined fingers. The breath in his lungs starts to become heavier, and he knows it is very difficult to breathe.

But he has to remain. He must remain by Ubba’s grave.

“Eivor…”

“Not now, Sigurd.”

“You have been here for far too long—you must _rest_.”

“While I was resting, Sigurd,” he snarls, “Ubba was _killed_.”

The aurora flashes in Eivor’s eyes when he snaps. The aurora sends a warning when he snaps: _get out of my sight before I wring your neck_.

Sigurd was the first to try, then Randvi, then Yanli, and finally…

There was a shrill tinkle of beads.

It is Valka.

She approaches slower than Sigurd, keeping quiet until she is in his space. Eivor lifts his eyes, his bloodshot eyes, and waits. He sees her open her mouth but no words spill. She is not one to hesitate.

“Eivor,” she begins. “Would you like to see him?”

His eyes widen; an auror dances in them.

“Yes,” he answers with no hesitation.

But he hesitates when the brew he holds in his hand appears deep red. Like blood. He imagines the blood caking his hands, limbs. He imagines the blood to be _his._ His hand shakes, his heart is unsteady. The colour in Ubba’s eyes has faded, his blood has dried—

Valka’s brew was warm on the tongue but too hot for the throat.

“Do not finish the brew,” she says the moment Eivor has his lips touching the bowl. “You must finish it on the Ragnarsson Lookout.”

Eivor wonders if Ubba has ever seen the encampment from the viewpoint as he rode towards the location. He wonders if Ubba has seen the entirety of England like Eivor has. He wonders if Ubba prefers the cold of Northumbria or the warmer climates of Mercia. Eivor wonders if Ubba… he wonders if Ubba knew just how important he was—not because he was a Ragnarsson, because he was a good friend.

A powerful ally. The perfect man.

Hati howls when Eivor draws him to a stop, but remains in silence when Eivor coos him to a shush and gives his fur a few strokes. Was this to calm his wolf or to calm his heart? It punches against his sternum, cracks against his ears.

Eivor climbs to the top of the tower, climbs onto the viewpoint and settles at the edge, standing. Watching. Almost hesitating to finish Valka’s brew. He does not know what to think, what to say. Would he truly see Ubba, one more time? Would he truly feel Ubba, one _last_ time?

He drinks Valka’s brew; warm on his lips but hot in his throat.

He does not remember falling.

He does not remember another man with him.

However, he does remember that face.

He hesitates when the face appears deep red. Like blood. He knows the blood is caking his hands, limbs. He knows the blood is his. His heart shakes, his breath is unsteady.

“ _Ubba_.”

All mighty and in glory is Ubba Ragnarsson. His eyes, bright and alive. His smile, beaming and alive. He is not bathed in crimson. He is not submerged in iron. He lives, he breathes. He smiles. But he is a lifetime away.

“Hello, Eivor. It has been a while.”

Mercia no more, Eivor stands in a field of flowers. Laced in hues of purple, green, and bathing in specks of gold was a beautiful field of lavender. White Asgardian lamps hum around them; in the distance, a pair of large, golden doors. A pair Eivor is not allowed to reach just yet.

Not anytime soon.

Ubba pulls Eivor to his feet, his hands warm to the touch. Ubba tugs Eivor to a stand; his eyes, full of colour— _life_ to the sight. He truly is in Ubba’s presence, he truly is feeling the soft skin of Ubba’s hand. He _truly is_ Ubba Ragnarsson. Eivor runs his hand over his armour, clean and untouched. Eivor runs his hand over his deep purple cloak, soft and unmarred.

No scars lingers on Ubba.

No bruises, not cuts, no wounds.

Ubba Ragnarsson, in _insurmountable_ glory.

“You should have called,” says Eivor, hand now grasping Ubba’s fingers as if seeking warmth. As if seeking his touch. He says with a heavy heart and breath, a stone in his throat. He swallows, harsh and it scratches at the lining of his throat. “You were in need of help— _my_ help. You should have called for _me_.”

Ubba smiles then, the pad of his thumb running over Eivor’s digits from forefinger to the ring. His smile drops as quickly as it appeared. He recognises the cold, lifeless silver that hugs Eivor’s finger. He recognises it, and wants to give it warmth— _life_. But his soul was far from alive. “I did not want to be a burden, Eivor. Especially not one for you to carry on your shoulders.”

Ubba Ragnarsson? A burden? Never. Ubba is— _was_ a fighter. A warrior. The son of Ragnar Lothbrok. _The_ Drengr Eivor wanted.

“You are not a burden. Not to me, not to anyone.”

The man Eivor _wants_.

“Apologies, Eivor. I dared not wish for you to see how weak I was.”

Silence takes him; takes them. In silence, they stand in each other’s presence, warmth. Their skins touch, they share one breath. Time passes slower in that field of lavender. Time passes slower as if the gods are merciful—as if Freyja is watching over them.

Eivor remembers who Ubba was— _is._ He is no burden. He is not weak. He is not a man one should anger. Ubba is an honourable man, a respectable man—a warrior, a fighter.

A man Eivor wanted by his side.

_I do not have much time left with you._

A man Eivor fel—

“There’s one more thing.”

His hand cupping Eivor’s face, it is the perfect hold for Ubba’s hand. Ubba watches Eivor as an aurora dances in his mint-frosted eyes. So close, they are so _close_ but their souls are so far. “What are you doing still talking to me? You have come to bid me a proper goodbye, no?”

_Please. Just let me hear your voice, one last time._

“Yes,” Eivor begins his goodbye; his eyes cast to their feet. His smile, nowhere to be seen. The light in his eyes, nowhere to be seen. “Be well, Ubba—”

“Listen, Eivor.”

Ubba slices through his words like a hot knife on butter.

“I wish that I could’ve been more than a Ragnarsson. I wish—oh gods, I wish I could have lived in Ravensthorpe, as one of your raiders, by _your_ side. I wish to be known as your Drengr, _your_ warrior. The arm ring, this silver ring—I wanted something I _know_ you’d disallow: _us._ By Odin’s breath, I am _so sorry_.”

Ubba cups the other side of Eivor’s face, his hands shaking as he basks in Eivor’s warmth one last time. He feels Eivor’s hands upon his but he could not see them through the thick mist of tears that grows abundant in his sight.

“I hope you can forgive me.”

_Just one last time, let me feel you in my grasp. Please._

His hand cupping Ubba’s own, it is the perfect hold for Eivor’s hand. Eivor watches Ubba as stars gleam in his pastel-blue eyes. So close, they are so _close_ but their souls are so far. Eivor wants to reach for him, he wants to pull him back to Midgard.

Eivor wants to bring him home.

Silence again takes him; again, takes them. In silence, they stand by each other. Their skin finally touched, and they have shared one breath. In silence did they stand facing each other. In silence did they watch the colour swim in each other’s eyes. One full of life and the other full of wonder, hope.

Freyja is watching over them in the field of lavender.

The cold, lifeless ring hugs his finger. Warmed by the soft and ginger touch of Ubba’s lips. His brows furrow. His forehead rests against Eivor’s own. He hears Eivor’s breath in his lungs starting to become heavier, and he knows it is very difficult to breathe.

“I wouldn’t have disallowed us, Ubba.”

Eivor once feared to touch Ubba’s lifeless body because of how cold he felt to his fingers, to his touch. So weightless. So pale. So _dead_. But the Ubba he has in his grasp is alive; is happy—is where he ought to be, in the afterlife.

The afterlife… Valhalla… Eivor was destined to sit amongst the men and women who fight in life and in death. But he was not destined to go yet. He watches as the doors have opened for one, and only one—t’is not for Eivor, but for the man who stood in front of him.

Eivor has to remain in Midgard. He _has_ to remain in the realm of the living. Eivor has to return home. He _has_ to let Ubba go.

“Because to me, you are more than just an ally, a friend. It’s why I have yet to do anything with this silver ring.”

Gods, his laugh was wet with his own bloody tears.

There was a shrill blow of a wind with a lover’s caress, and the golden doors finally open. Nothing but light, Eivor sees. Nothing but white, Eivor notes. But for Ubba, he sees the great feast; his brother, his father, and his mother. And all those Drengr who fought in their family’s name. _All of them_ were waiting for him.

It is time for them to say goodbye.

Ubba has himself looking at Eivor for the last time. Ubba has himself wishing for more. Ubba has himself wishing he could show Eivor just how much he has grown to respect him, admire him, _loved_ him. But Eivor does not need his words to know. His hands cup Ubba’s face, it is the perfect hold for his hands. How pretty Ubba’s eyes are. Such a soft pastel-blue. He hopes they remain in his memory, for he knows it will be the last time he will see them staring back at him.

“To you, my beloved,” Eivor begins his goodbye.

The field of lavender no more, Eivor stands at the edge of the Ragnarsson Lookout viewpoint. Laced in hues of red, green, and bathing in specks of pink, purple, and orange was Mercia. No more did white Asgardian lamps hum around him. No more could he see in the distance, a pair of large, golden doors.

T’was a golden pair of doors Ubba did not let you pass.

T’was the golden pair of doors that led to the Hall of Slain Warriors; that led to a world Ubba now waits for you.

_May your time in Valhalla be bright and glorious_.


End file.
